by RC Boldt
I grit my teeth and silently hand him his phone. Christ, this is fucked up and getting worse by the second.
Rafe pockets his phone and leans against the mahogany hutch. “Even if my gut is wrong—”
“Which it’s never been.”
“She’s still the key to gettin’ Santilla outta the woodwork for the other dominos to fall. And we need that to happen.”
I scrub a hand over my head, agitation pouring off me. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” I’m mainly asking myself, but Rafe answers.
“If you give a little…” He shrugs. “Maybe she will, too.”
I let out a frustrated grunt because that wasn’t the answer I was looking for.
I rap my knuckles against Olivia’s bedroom door before stepping inside and shutting it quietly.
Light streams out from beneath the door to the adjoining bathroom, so I lean back against the wall and wait for her. Emerging a short moment later dressed in workout clothes, she stops short at the sight of me.
She levels me with a suspicious glare. “What do you want?” She shoves her keys and phone inside a tote and loops the straps over her shoulder. “Because I’d honestly prefer to be left alone right now.”
“Where you think you’re goin’?”
Defiant eyes clash with mine while sarcasm oozes from her tone. “To stand on a busy corner of Biscayne Boulevard and find all your rival drug dealers.” She rolls her eyes with a huff. “I’m going to the gym.”
I run my tongue along my teeth, knowing she’s at her threshold by the caginess in her eyes.
“I’ll drive you.” I turn for the door, but her incredulous, “What?” has me facing her again. “Said I’ll drive you. You obviously need to let off some steam.”
Olivia looks up at the ceiling and closes her eyes, then releases a long breath. The action has her breasts rising and falling, and even though they’re encased in a run-of-the-mill sports bra with a tank top tossed over it, my eyes are still drawn to them. I can almost make out the slight jut of her nipples. I wish I’d gotten my mouth on them.
Fuck me. I rake a hand over my jaw and tear my eyes away. “Look…we’ll talk after you blow off steam.”
Her eyes flash open, and not for the first time, I think how goddamn pretty she is. Those eyes of hers, that sass behind the prim and proper façade…
“Okay,” she agrees softly.
I nod, spinning around to avoid the sensation of the room closing in on me. “Meet me by the garages.” I get about five steps down the hall when she calls after me. I stop but don’t turn around. Some invisible connection is fucking with me, and I need my head on straight. Can’t afford not to.
“Thank you.”
I nod with a grunt and continue walking. Because I know without a shadow of a doubt, when this is all over, she won’t be thanking me for anything.
Instead, she’ll be cursing the day I showed up in her damn house.
17
Olivia
I wait outside, welcoming the typical Miami humidity and heat that kiss my skin. It’s familiar, and I hope it will somehow ground me amidst the chaos that’s become my life.
Drawing in what I pray will be a calming breath, I remind myself of psychological adaptations. I survived years ago, and practicing those strategies has gotten me through. This means there’s absolutely no reason I can’t survive this too. I’m strong. I’m intelligent. I’m resilient.
I will not allow this man to disrupt my life and incite a sense of helplessness.
Nico comes strolling outside, keys in hand, heading to one of the three-car garage bays whose door is now opening. But this isn’t what has my stomach tightening and my grip turning punishing on my bag’s straps. It’s what he’s wearing.
I’m not sure why it unsettles me to see him wearing regular clothes in place of expensive suits or a tuxedo. He possesses a potent virility regardless of what fabric drapes his body. Dressed in a pair of athletic shorts and a gray, dry-wicking T-shirt, running shoes on his feet, and sunglasses masking his eyes, he provides an additional reminder that my guard has to stay up for this chameleon-like man.
He presses the key fob in his hand. “Lemme pull out so you can get in.” Sliding behind the wheel of a silver Porsche, he starts the car, and the engine purrs to life. He pulls the vehicle from the garage and stops next to me.
Once I slide onto the leather seat that cradles my body and fasten my seat belt, he drives toward the gates. He presses a button on the vehicle’s dash, and the gates draw open, then we’re whizzing down the street. My eyes are drawn to his long, tapered fingers gripping the gear shift, changing it with our speed.
Those hands were on me, prepared to bring me pleasure if I had allowed it. God knows his mouth had certainly wreaked havoc on me. But the conflict doesn’t stop there. Nico didn’t press me for more that night. He didn’t force himself on me. Instead, he somehow recognized that I couldn’t give in.
Humanizing someone and having feelings of trust or affection are textbook for Stockholm syndrome. I know this. I’ve researched it.
Yet my brain tells me this isn’t the case with Nico. He may be trustworthy in some ways—at least as far as trusting him not to violate my body. Not to touch me without permission.
“How long you think you need?” His muted question draws me from my tumultuous inner thoughts, subsiding a touch of the tension riddling me.
“An hour tops.”
He gives a curt nod as he brakes at a red stoplight.
I hazard a quick glance at him, but he stares straight ahead, sunglasses covering his brown eyes, silence encapsulating us. His mouth is a flat line of concentration as he navigates the typical traffic along Biscayne Boulevard. I hurriedly avert my gaze and stare sightlessly as the passing scenery flits by.
Within what feels like seconds, Nico parks in the gym lot. He scans our surroundings. “Wait for me to come around.” He exits before I can respond, and I watch as he circles the vehicle. Opening my door, he continues to survey the lot.
“Is something wrong?”
His sunglass-covered attention rests on me. “Can’t be too careful.”
After pressing the fob for the car alarm, he places a hand at the base of my spine as we venture toward the entrance of my gym. When we step up to the front desk, one of the managers, Kristin, greets us.
“Hey, Olivia! Hi, Mr. Alcanzar.” Her smile increases a notch when she focuses her light blue eyes on Nico. Not that I care.
I don’t.
“Thanks for bein’ so accommodatin’, Kristin.” He offers her a little smile, and the woman practically melts all over the counter.
Is there anyone in this city who won’t bend over backward for this man?
“Oh, not a problem.” She cups her hand at the side of her mouth, lowering her voice as if she’s telling us a secret. “We try not to bend the rules, but we make exceptions for special clientele.”
I refuse to stand by and watch this. With a smile pasted on my face, I say, “I’m heading back now.” Edging away, I give a little wave with a, “Thanks, Kristin,” then spin around.
I’m halfway down the hall before Nico catches up, falling in step with me. “Gettin’ in some power walkin’, huh?”
Screw him and the humor threaded in his voice. Ignoring him, I make a beeline for the room I reserved. Once we’re inside and Nico shuts the door, I start digging in my bag for my phone while heading toward the opposite side of the room to set up. I only make it a few steps toward the sound system when strong fingers capture my upper arm, pulling me to an abrupt stop.
His body heat warms my back, and I tense but don’t turn. “I’ll be over here, gettin’ some work done.” Nico’s hold on me relaxes a fraction. “Won’t bother you, but I’d rather be close in case there’s a threat.”
I shift to face him, and he releases his hold on me. “You think there’s a threat?”
He studies me for a beat. “Somebody approached you in that coffee shop today. Gave you that info. If
they’re workin’ with your mom, then we gotta be careful.”
“Right.” With a derisive expression, I mutter sourly, “Because you need me to get to her.” Turning away, I head over to hook up my cell phone to the system.
“No.” His reply comes out so emphatic that it draws my gaze back to him. “I may not trust you, but I ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to you. Especially since your mom ain’t nicknamed La Madre de la Muerta—the mother of death—for nothin’.”
That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement for my safety, but it’s all I have to go on.
From my periphery, I see Nico easing onto the floor, sprawled casually with his back to the wall and one knee bent. Plugging earbuds into his phone and tucking them in each ear, he begins tapping out what I’m sure are countless commands about drug money or drug shipments or whatever the hell drug dealers say and do.
He ignores me, so I do my best to reciprocate.
I need to get my head straight, or at least much less crooked than it is after a doozy of a day. Inhaling deeply before letting it out slowly, I tap the screen of my phone to cue my playlist. I need the big guns to truly get my mind and body on board and let go of some of this stress.
Sarah Fimm’s “Lioness” is the only thing that’ll do.
18
Nico
No hits yet.
That’s all Rafe’s text says. Fuck. Who the hell gave Olivia that obituary?
Covertly, I glance at Olivia as she moves, wrapping herself around the pole like it’s the most natural thing. And I’m struck by the same question that’s plagued me for days.
Who the hell is Olivia Wright? Or Oliviana Isabella Santilla-Jiménez, I guess I should say. She seemed genuinely confused when I told her about her mother. And today, when she stormed into my office with that obituary in hand, she’d been visibly shaken.
But her history has too many gaps for her to be completely innocent in all this. She didn’t pop up on anyone’s radar until that damn video of her went viral. The instant we saw her in it, we knew we’d hit the fucking jackpot. She’s the spitting image of her mother, Santilla.
All we have on Olivia is that she was homeschooled and tested out of intro classes at Cambridge College. There are no photographs or videos of her at parties or clubs during that time. It’s as if she only existed on paper, graduating early with honors.
Once she got her graduate degree from The Ohio State University, she turned around and nabbed a teaching position there. It’s no surprise that she was a force to be reckoned with from the start of her career. She spearheaded studies on recidivism in state penitentiaries and used brain scans to promote the study of the criminal mind. Her work has been published in a handful of academic journals.
A few years go unaccounted for between her leaving there and accepting the position here at the University of South Miami. That gap of time leaves me with many questions, though. My instincts might swear she’s innocent, but I can’t shake the lingering suspicion that she’s hiding something.
I force myself to concentrate on emails, many of them clarifying timelines for drops and exchanges.
I hate fucking around with Boman and his pompous ass, but part of the university’s new wing gives us the space to package shipments safely since he’s ensured each of the building entrances’ badge readers are coded for restricted access only. I receive the direct digital receipt, identifying anyone who swipes their badge and gains entry.
As soon as I get through my emails, I slump against the wall as weariness takes hold. This job feels like it’ll be the end of me before I even realize it. I’m so goddamn tired of this shit that I want to just say fuck it and leave it all behind.
But I can’t. Too much is at stake. I need Johanna fucking Santilla out of the picture, once and for all.
Raising my head to peer at the woman who moves with an elegance that separates her from the women who do it for a living, encouraging men to tuck money in their G-strings, I know she’s the key.
There’s more to her than meets the eye. And I’m damn determined to get to the bottom of it.
19
Olivia
Nico drives past the turnoff for his house and continues heading east toward the Atlantic Ocean. I remain silent in the passenger seat while he parks nearby the Surfside Walking Path that runs parallel to the beach.
He leaves the car idling, air-conditioning puffing through the vents. Staring out the windshield as it nears dusk, he sends unease drifting over me with his silence.
“Ain’t gonna lie.” His voice is muted. “I expected somebody different.”
I remain quiet, waiting to see where he’s going with this line of conversation. He rakes a hand over his short hair, releasing a sigh.
“Your mom’s the motherfuckin’ mother of death. La Madre de la Muerta.” He looks over, pinning me with his stare. “Name she gave to herself, apparently. ’Cause she ain’t afraid to kill whoever’s in her way. Followed in her old man’s footsteps.”
I meet his gaze, wishing he’d tell me everything.
“He’s only giving you pieces of the truth, taunting you with bread crumbs to get what he wants.”
It’s not smart to put stock in words that come from a person who won’t even offer their name or allow you to look at them. Yet somehow, I know that woman wasn’t lying when it pertains to Nico and his half-truths.
Maybe it’s my turn to try to turn the tide. Get him to see that he can trust me. It’s what leads me to say, “The only parents I’ve ever known are Liam and Beth.” My eyes beseech him to believe me. “We moved around a lot because of their jobs.” I scan his features, searching for any sign that he isn’t doubting every word that spills from my lips. “I don’t know this Johanna woman. I swear it.”
He stares at me for a long moment, his features tense, hardened. “She was due to inherit her dad’s business. Runnin’ drugs and washin’ money. Your dad, Antonio, didn’t want that kinda life. So, he paid off some people in the hospital to deliver you. Got your mom drugged up enough that she didn’t realize what was happenin’. They showed her a stillborn baby instead of you.
“Your dad got you outta there and put you with people he trusted. Knew she’d have him killed ’cause he didn’t want nothin’ to do with the kinda life she was steppin’ into. Didn’t want you in the middle of that. And he was right about her ’cause she killed him.”
“How do you know this?”
He pauses, surveying me carefully, as if to analyze any tiny nuance in my expression. “Fact is, somebody’s always willin’ to share info as long as they get somethin’ in return. Just gotta ask the right people.”
Staring out the windshield, I watch people bike, run, and walk along the path, going about their lives so naturally while my own life—and everything I’ve known of it—implodes further.
“What about…” I can’t quite bring myself to call him my father. My lips refuse to form the words because Liam was the father I’ve always known and loved. “What about Antonio? Do you have any photographs of him?”
He shakes his head. “No photos of your dad seem to exist.”
A small part of me withers at that because it would be nice to have a face to go along with the name. Even the grainiest or most worn-out photo.
“And you think what? That she’d want to have something to do with me?” I have no idea how my voice is so controlled. “Why? She doesn’t even know me.”
“Don’t matter if she knows you or not. You’re blood.” He scans my features, his expression giving nothing away. “She don’t have any kids ’cept you. She knows you’re alive ’cause of that video. You’re smart, Professor. You gotta know I don’t do shit unless I’m a hundred percent sure.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. “What do you mean by that?”
His index finger silently taps against the steering wheel, but his eyes never veer from mine. “Got someone to grab your DNA off the coffee cup you drank from.” A smirk teases at his mouth. “Straight outta your wasteba
sket in your office. Ran it against Santilla’s. A while back, she’d been brought in by police and had to give them a sample but squeaked outta there without facin’ charges.”
The eerie knowledge that Nico has connections with the local police department has my stomach tying itself in a knot.
“Within a few days, I got my answer.” He eyes me with an inscrutable expression. “An undeniable match.”
He slides a hand inside the front pocket of his shorts and withdraws a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he hands it to me.
The familiar name of a lab in Miami is printed on the letterhead. Most of it is gibberish to me, aside from the names listed.
Johanna Santilla-Jiménez
Olivia Wright
Johanna Santilla-Jiménez shows the genetic markers which must be present for the biological mother of Olivia Wright.
Probability of maternity is 99.89%.
I stare down at the paper, tracing my fingers over the stamped seal certifying its authenticity. Emotions riot wildly inside me, but I force a calm tone. “So, how is this supposed to work? You want her to show her face. Then what?”
His eyes drift over me analytically as one corner of his mouth tips up. “She needs to compromise on business practices.”
Glaring at him, I refold the paper and hand it back. “And you’ll just hand me over to her? In exchange for her not encroaching on your turf?” My breath rushes past my lips in a ragged pant. “You’d hand me over to a woman who allegedly killed my father when he didn’t want that kind of life? Knowing that I want nothing to do with any of it?”
Dread fills my veins at the prospect. If she killed Antonio Jiménez for not wanting to lead a criminal life, then my fate would surely follow suit.
Instantly, Nico’s expression shutters, and his eyes grow colder than I’ve ever witnessed. His voice is like barbed wire, sharp and lethal with every word. “What? You think just ’cause we got all hot and heavy at that gala that you’re safe and sound?” A harsh laugh erupts from him, and it’s so icy it sends chills skittering along the length of my spine. “Nah. That ain’t how things work with me.”
